


Protecc

by The_Lochness_Monster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Day 7, F/F, Fleurmione Week 2020, Ron Weasley Bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26383534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lochness_Monster/pseuds/The_Lochness_Monster
Summary: A recently divorced Hermione Granger suddenly finds herself gaining unpleasant attention from those she would rather have nothing to do with. Luckily, she brought a friend.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Comments: 28
Kudos: 394
Collections: Fleurmione Week 2020





	Protecc

**Author's Note:**

> Last day of Fleurmione week! 
> 
> Really pushing the time boundaries on this one D:

Hermione walked up to the pub in a huff. She had just come from a particularly exhausting meeting in which she was informed, with little fanfare, that her department funds were getting halved immediately. It was not particularly surprising, but that didn’t make it any less disheartening. For every step forward she took, she seemed to take two backward.

She tried desperately to dispel the lingering frustrations as she pulled open the door to the crowded pub, eager as she was to enjoy the night with her friend. The pub smelled of stale ale. Hermione scrunched up her nose in displeasure but continued to the familiar table in the back corner. She mumbled apologies as she pushed her way through. 

“Oi look where you’re going!” A voice called after her. She didn’t bother to turn around. 

When she finally, mercifully, reached her destination she slumped her upper body onto the standing table with an audible sigh that prompted an amused laugh from the woman standing across from her.

“Tough day?” The woman had a silken voice that felt like a balm to Hermione’s terrible day.

“The worst.”

Hermione pulled her gaze upward to meet the blue eyes of the blonde witch. Fleur Delacour herself. If you had told a 15 year old Hermione Granger that in ten years she would not only be meeting with the French witch, but looking forward to it, she would have been convinced that you had been hexed with a particularly nasty hallucinogenic spell. 

After the horrors of the war, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to dislike Fleur anymore. Her dislike had always been a ruse to mask her uncomfortable attraction to the other woman, an attraction that she herself had been loath to admit. What a difference ten years makes. 

“Want to talk about it?”

“Honestly? No. How was your trip?”

Before Fleur could respond a man lumbered up to the pair. He was remarkably unremarkable. His hair fell messily across his forehead in an unattractive and unintentional manner that spoke volumes to his current level of inebriation. 

“‘lo there. I ‘eard from my mates,” he gestured to a crowd of men that were looking on with a mix of interest, amusement, and a dash of horror, “that YOU” he leaned forward towards Hermione in emphasis, “are fresh on the market. I thought I’d offer my services.” He gave her a confident smirk that no doubt was meant to impress, but left Hermione rather repulsed. He smelt of whiskey. Hermione hated whiskey. 

“That’s alright. Thanks though.” She barely even glanced at him before turning her attention to Fleur, who was making a pitiful attempt at concealing her displeasure of the man. 

“Anyway, your trip?”

“Just, I think I have something to offer the ginger couldn’t. It’s a big offering.” The man leaned his upper body over the table, forcing an irate Fleur to snatch up her drink to safety, and causing his body to mirror the leer he was giving Hermione. She could almost feel his breath against her cheek. 

Fleur’s eyes flashed dangerously as she glared at the man. 

“I’m really not in the mood. Please leave.” Hermione spoke quietly, but firmly as she angled her body away from him. 

He gave an undignified scoff. “Fine. No need to be such a bitch about it.” 

The man lumbered back towards his friends who were laughing loudly at the display, knocking into another patron on the way and spilling their drink over his own shirt. 

“Merlin, sorry.” Hermione said.

Fleur waved her off. “It’s not your fault, mon amie. I should think they would have a difficult time pouring water from a boot with the instructions on the heel.”

Hermione smiled at the muggle saying. Fleur had begun an acculturation of sorts to the muggle world ever since Hermione had first introduced her to the wonderful world of the internet. It was always oddly satisfying to her when Fleur unconsciously referenced a piece of muggle culture. Unfortunately, this satisfaction was not enough to quell the disgust the interaction had brought, even after the man had left.

“They just want to say they were with the Golden Girl.” She spat out the last words with no small amount of indignation. Her head tilted as she considered her present company. Disgust bled to curiosity as she asked, “How do you deal with the attention?”

Fleur pondered the question. “It was worse when I was younger. You remember how it was at the tournament? I was at the peak of puberty. It is not such a pleasant experience, for a Veela. Our hormones are desperate to find a mate. They can cause some intense responses.”

Hermione was rather smug at how she managed to keep the blush off her face. How far she had come. 

“The thrall only presents in puberty?” 

Hermione was curious. Fleur had never discussed this with her before. The quarter Veela was reluctant to discuss anything about the Veela, secretive as they were about their kind.

“It’s always there. I just lacked the control when I was younger.” She searched Hermione’s face for something, for what Hermione couldn’t say, but she seemed to find whatever it was she looking for and continued. “Being only a quarter-Veela, it is especially hard for me to control. I think of it as a muscle; it can be trained.”

“So you could turn it on now?”

“Oui. But that would be unwise in our current company.”

She gave a scathing look to yet another man who approached Hermione from behind. 

“Hullo there.”

He was handsome. High cheekbones, sculpted jaw, full lips, and a well maintained, stylish hair cut. He was tall, well built, and loomed over Hermione as he leaned in while placing a hand on her back. Hermione thought that she once would have found him appealing.

Hermione gave him a quick once over. “No.”

“No? What are you talking about?” 

“This.” She gestured up and down at his general person. “I’m all set. Thank you though.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” He said, getting frustrated.

“You didn’t have to, now if you please, I’m having a nice conversation with my friend.” 

“How about I bring over one of my mates?” He nodded over to a pair of similarly built men who were propped against the bar looking over at the group, their appreciative looks lingering on the women’s chests. 

“I suggest you leave.” Fleur chimed in for the first time, as she allowed her eyes to flash scarlet red in warning. 

The man, either consciously or subconsciously, seemed to finally register the threat Fleur presented and walked away, his metaphorical tail between his legs. 

“I’m sorry.” Fleur said immediately.

Hermione looked at her, surprised. “What for?”

“I know you don’t want or need me to fight your battles for you.”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “I’d hardly call that a battle. I don’t mind. Not when you do it.”

Fleur flushed slightly, grateful for the dim lighting of the pub that prevented Hermione from noticing.

“All the same, I’d never want to be like… him.” She continued, this time earnestly and almost pleadingly, “Tell me if I ever am,  _ please _ .”

Hermione softened, and spoke in a quiet tone. “You’d never be like him.”

“I could be. I- I don’t want to be but I find I get… jealous over those who are-“ She stopped suddenly, snapped her mouth closed, and reached for her drink. The blush that now had spread across her face was so distinct that Hermione would have had a difficult time  _ not _ spotting it. 

“Who are what?”

Fleur gulped. Hermione expected her to speak in a whisper, and leaned in to catch whatever Fleur was going to say. She thus found herself closer than what was strictly necessary as Fleur spoke in a confident, sure voice. “Who are mine.”

The blonde looked intently into Hermione’s eyes, now only a few inches away. Fleur hadn’t realized she had stepped slightly around the small round table so that they stood together on what had been Hermione’s side. 

She was so close she could have seen the slight bob of Hermione’s throat as she gulped. But she didn’t. She was too focused on the face of the younger witch. Her eyes flicked down to her lips, then back to her eyes. 

A large bang sounded from the entrance as the door was flung open. Yet another group of young wizards piled in, immediately making their way to the bar, clapping one another on the back and singing a popular wizarding tune at the top of their lungs. They caught the attention of everyone in the bar. 

Fleur was still standing in front of Hermione, unintentionally blocking her view. She stiffened when she saw who was a part of the new group. Ron Weasley. He looked like she remembered: smug, arrogant, and, she wrinkled her nose, unkempt. His clothes were wrinkled, and his hair messy in a way that suggested it was done on purpose rather than a result of indifference. Despite his appearance, he oozed confidence and hubris. 

He called out to the bartender, his voice booming out across the pub and over the music. “Beers ‘round for all my mates!”

Fleur had seen quite enough. She turned to face Hermione, their bodies still just a small distance apart. The British witch had an expression of confusion, and she shifted to try and look around Fleur.

“Is that… Ronald?”

Fleur grabbed her with both hands just above the elbows. 

“Don’t look. He’s not even worth that.” 

Fleur’s response was answer enough, and the defeated look that Hermione had entered with now returned as she stopped trying to move around the older woman. Fleur’s heart broke. 

“Oh. I didn’t think he’d be out.”

Fleur began to rub soothing circles with her thumb on Hermione’s arms.

Hermione spoke again before Fleur could say anything. “I don’t- I don’t want him to see me.”

Ron had moved closer to them. They could hear him talking loudly to his friends.

“Any birds here? I’m thinking we have a few here and head off ta Black Door?”

Hermione slouched down as tried to make herself appear smaller. Ron’s group was still advancing, heading towards an open booth not 10 feet behind them.

“Do you trust me?” Fleur said. She dropped her hands from Hermione’s arms. 

Hermione looked up to her in surprise. “Yes?”

“Is that a question or an answer?”

“An answer.” She said, her voice more confident.

“Ok.” Fleur whispered. 

Fleur stepped forward. Hermione took a step back in response, causing what little space there was between the wall and her back to close. She could feel the rough surface pressing through her thin blouse and the blood pumping through her ears in thumping pulses.

Slowly, Fleur stepped forward again while she raised her arms to bracket on either side of Hermione’s head. There was hardly any distance now between the two women. Hermione became acutely aware of the height difference between them as she now had to tip her head back to meet the gaze of the Frenchwoman. 

Ron and his friends, none of whom Fleur had been able to recognize, now sat at the booth. She tried to ignore them, but it proved difficult due to the  _ unfortunate _ ability Veelas possessed to discern when  _ specific _ attention was given, and so she was tragically  _ not _ caught unaware of the stares the group was now sending in their direction. She reached up with her left hand to release her hair from the neatly wound bun at the nape of her neck. Her silvery hair cascaded down. She pulled it over her left side in an attempt to block the unwanted notice. Her hand returned to the wall. 

Fleur tilted her head down, causing their fronts to touch. For a moment, Hermione thought that Fleur was going to kiss her. It was terrifying. And thrilling. Instead, Fleur brushed her lips on Hermione’s left ear. 

“They are watching.” Her voice was soft, but raspier than normal. Hermione wondered if perhaps the blonde was just as affected as she was. But the older witch proved to have more willpower than the Gryffindor and leaned back reluctantly, her eyes a honeyed yellow unlike any shade Hermione had seen before.

“I don’t want them to.” Hermione said.

Fleur licked her lips. Her eyes darted around Hermione’s face, as she contemplated. “There is a Veela, ah charm, of sorts, that would prevent them from seeing us.”

“A charm?”

“Of a sort.”

“How does it work?”

Fleur shifted her weight uncomfortably. “You said you trust me, yes?”

“Without question.”

  
  


Fleur stared into her eyes. Evidently the answer had provided her with whatever it was she needed to hear. Her eyes were now firmly locked on Hermione’s lips. There was so little space between already, that it wasn't long at all before their lips met. At first, Fleur barely pushed against Hermione, but the brunette had ideas of her own, and pressed her face forward, tipping from the wall to Fleur’s lips, and forcing the kiss to deepen. Fleur’s fingers traced along Hermione’s face until they found purchase at the nape of the younger witch’s neck. There, she tightened her hold as she softly caressed the other woman’s cheek with her thumb. 

Before she could recognize what it was she was doing, Hermione’s own hands were reaching out to grab at the sides of Fleur’s jumper to pull her closer in order to erase the space between them. Every breath she took smelt of fresh lavender that defined Fleur. Her fingers slipped cautiously underneath Fleur’s jumper, and suddenly she could feel the warmth that was emanating from the other woman. It wasn’t just a temperature, but a feeling. Secure. Safe. She dug her fingers into Fleur’s skin as if to reassure herself that this was really happening, and not just another daydream that had gone awry.

Fleur’s grip tightened at the back of Hermione’s head, eliciting a small moan of pleasure from the brunette. And then she withdrew. A soft noise of protest slipped past Hermione’s mouth at the action. 

“They can’t see us now.”

“Who?” Hermione was in a daze. She didn’t care about anything other than getting Fleur to kiss her again. When Ron and she kissed it had never felt like  _ that _ . They never left her knees weak, her heart fluttering, or her body desperate for more. 

Fleur smirked in response and drew away further, now standing up to her full height over Hermione. Her hand left the back of the witch’s neck, sliding to her cheek to push a lock of hair that had fallen across Hermione’s face back behind her ear. 

“Do you want to go?”

Hermione gulped, then called on her Gryffindor courage, demanding to herself to have confidence in this moment, especially for this moment, and said as assured as she could, “Yes. Yours or mine?”

**Author's Note:**

> I did it! I bashed Ron Weasley! Are you proud of me or what?
> 
> Also, this entire one-shot was inspired by a gif, so.
> 
> Thank you rice_and_beans for making me write it/editing the pile of flaming trash it was. You can also blame/thank them for the name of the fic. Can't wait to spend the rest of our lives together <3<3


End file.
